


Innerbloom (if you want me, if you need me)

by nymphe



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Claiming, Comeplay, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Gratuitous Smut, Lydia Martin is Perfect, M/M, Mates, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Possessive Derek, Scent Kink, Scent Marking, Stiles Stilinski Deserves Nice Things, Top Derek Hale/Bottom Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 01:36:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18458777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymphe/pseuds/nymphe
Summary: Lydia and Stiles are study partners, Lydia (correctly) theorizes that Stiles is losing precious brain cells daydreaming about getting dicked down by our resident moody werewolf, Derek has issues: trust issues, issues using his words, feelings issues, issues with Lydia’s scent overwhelming Stiles’ scent & issues with Stiles not smelling enough like him. What’s new, basically.Title from Rüfüs Du Sol.





	Innerbloom (if you want me, if you need me)

**Author's Note:**

> Raise your hand if you, also, like to take 5 year hiatuses and then spiral back down the rabbit hole.
> 
> Real notes: I stopped watching after around 3b, and as I said, took like a 5 year hiatus after that, so I’m ignoring a lot of whatever happened and setting this wherever I want it. Also, in my house we don’t drink that True Alpha Scott kool-aid, Derek is my Alpha forever, roll with it.
> 
> This was meant to be a cute 5k and then it sprouted and grew into like 5 additional k of just straight sex and I have no control, woops. Stiles’ age isn’t explicitly mentioned but I’m assuming he was 17-ish back in 3b, so I tagged this underage, but you’re more than welcome to ignore that and age him however makes you comfortable.
> 
> Stay tuned, because when I said I’d fallen into a rabbit hole I meant it, and I got a few other things in the works <3

It's fairly obvious to anyone who's ever paid attention that Stiles is incredibly bright. 

When he makes the effort, concentrates, takes his meds, he absolutely excels in school, enough to make even Lydia a little concerned that she might have actual competition for valedictorian. He's one of the only students in their high school that Lydia considers an intellectual equal, and if she believes anyone besides herself capable of an Ivy League scholarship, there's absolutely no question that her confidence is in him.

Actually, after her "rogue state" incident, and the ensuing "recovery" time she was forced to stay in the hospital for, and she admits this begrudgingly and only to herself, he was the only person she trusted to help her catch up on the schoolwork she'd had to miss. She had total confidence in his note taking ability - however sloppy his handwriting, and however jumbled his thoughts were when put to paper, they contained not only information from the class but also whatever research he had done on his own that fit the subject - and she's certain the only way she was able to bounce back so quickly and maintain her GPA was because of their twice weekly study sessions. 

And even after her recovery, the study sessions continued - having a mind like his to bounce ideas off of is a surprisingly effective way to maintain her own mental sharpness. It feels good to have an adequate study partner to stimulate and challenge her, keep her on top of her game while simultaneously humbling her by forcing her to consider other viewpoints and solutions. Even if he sometimes delves into more absurd theories.

Lydia knows Stiles is brilliant, even sometimes obnoxiously so, which is why she's not only confused but also kind of shocked when during one of their recent study sessions, he seems to have forgotten not only everything they've learned about the War of 1812, but that the War had happened or they'd learned about it at all. 

Admittedly, it was well past midnight and she'd showed up without warning, and she could easily chalk his sudden vapidness up to exhaustion, which would be justifiable by his glassy eyes and dazedness and general inability to produce words, but it's frankly so out of character for him when she's known him to do some of his best work in the dead of night that she knows there has to be another explanation.

But then again, once is just an accident. It has been a rough week for their supernatural friends, and maybe Derek had had him researching or studying with Deaton prior to her arrival.

She's going to have to remind Scott and the pack that you can't put "werewolf combat training" on Harvard applications, that emissaries generally aren’t considered acceptable references for most universities, and that the supernatural becoming a distraction to Stiles' ability to focus on his education is both tragic and unacceptable.

•

The abrupt creak of Stiles' bedroom window opening at midnight on a Tuesday should terrify him, and would have terrified him a year ago, but these days he's expecting his death to be a little more sudden and violent, somewhere in the middle of the woods, by like, a vengeful vampire or fucked up fairy or something, and definitely not in his bedroom. The uninvited guests that come through his bedroom window are usually just Scott or Derek. Sometimes Isaac.

"Your dad's at work," Derek says, leaning against the windowsill. It might've been a question, but, inflection. Derek's not very good at it. 

Stiles is sitting cross legged on his bed with his history textbook and no fewer than three notebooks scattered in front of him. His heartbeat picks up a little bit, which he knows Derek will notice and not mention.

"Yeah," Stiles says, "so no witnesses if you came here to kill me." 

And he might've, since Stiles thinks he's still a little salty over the whole, telling his dad he's a murderer, digging up old family graves, calling his family home "haunted" thing. It's been like a year, but the dude knows how to hold a grudge. He understands the bad blood, given he’s been kind of an asshole the past few years.

"Actually, could you kill me? Please? I have a Spanish test first period tomorrow but I've been babysitting your dumb puppies all week and haven't studied, like, at all."

(That’s a partial truth; the whole truth is that during pack times, Stiles lost an equal amount of brain cells listening to Scott come up with dumbass ideas and Jackson being egotistical and arrogant as he did every time he caught Derek shirtless, sweating in the sun while he was engaging Erica or Boyd in combat.)

The window is still open, and the stale, humid almost-summer breeze coming in feels really nice against his skin. He feels kind of warm, and can't tell if it's anxiety about this test or this weird feeling he's been getting around Derek lately that might be a legitimate panic-inducing crush (as opposed to just arousal, which, he’s a teenage boy, he’s used to overwhelming horniness now, but he’s still really hoping it’s that and not, you know, another case of unrequited love that’s going to leave him heartbroken again), or might be like, a minor fear of werewolf-induced death. Maybe a little of both. 

Actually, yeah, it's definitely both. But it would be a really hot death. He's hoping there would be some biting. Maybe a little choking. Definitely some manhandling, some bruising in some places that could be confused for sex-induced - hips, thighs, waist. He always liked it when Derek used to throw him against walls all the time, maybe that could be involved. 

Stiles coughs to dislodge that sudden train of thought before it becomes an extremely noticeable _situation_. "Uh. Come here for a reason, big guy? Or just to stare at me menacingly and distract me into failing out of school?"

"You've been studying a lot.... with Lydia." Another maybe-question? He's still leaning against the open window, hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket and looking one cigarette away from being a greaser bad boy turning all the good girls (and boys) into pink-haired love-dumb beauty school dropouts. 

"Are you- mad? She's smart as hell, smarter than me, and I kind of like maintaining a 4.0, ya know. Or like a 3.8 at least, I got a C in pre-calc during the whole nogitsune showdown bullshit and I’m still trying to regain my footing in Chemistry.”

"You smell like her," Derek says, "This room... smells like her. Your den should smell like your pack. Like your Alpha."

"Uh, okay, creepy," Stiles says, "But if that's your way of saying you wanna rub all up on me or whatever, be my guest."

Derek looks...like he wants to say something else, but has already fulfilled his word-quota of the evening and is gonna go back to being stoic and silent and built like a muscular brick wall.

"Or you're more than welcome to just stand there and act like a really weird, overwhelmingly masculine scented candle if that's more your thing." A candle that smells so good that Stiles can’t stop breathing it in, even when he thinks it might be displacing all of the oxygen in his lungs and leaving him a little lightheaded.

Derek slinks away from the wall, but doesn't shut the window. Stiles worries his murder isn't completely out of the question, if he's leaving the window as an easy escape route. He taps his pen against his notebook, catches himself gazing off at Derek in a way that can only be described as _dreamily_ , unfocused. He was writing something, a second ago, something about Spain? Or was he writing something in Spanish? 

History textbook. About Spain, probably. Great. Apparently his brain is killing off the useful information brain cells to make way for the idiot ones screaming /Derek! Muscles! Eyes! Forearms!!/. Also, weirdly, for some reason his thoughts in the past few minutes have been all in heart emojis? Is that....normal? He feels like one of those old Acme characters with the ahh-ooga hearts bulging out of his eyes. It’s unsettling.

"Or we can totally study at the library from now on," Stiles says. 

Derek takes another step away from the window, so close now to Stiles' bed that Stiles' thoughts are going haywire. There are a lot of exclamation marks. He didn't know thoughts could _be_ in exclamation marks.

And then he takes off his jacket, lays it on Stiles' bed, looks between it and Stiles intently as if to get across that while he's leaving his jacket on Stiles' bed, Stiles will be maimed and/or his limbs dislocated if he thinks about touching it.

"Your bed smells like her perfume. I’m your pack, your Alpha, your room should smell like...” he starts, trails off, grunts, displeasure clear as day. Stiles.....isn’t sure if Derek is expecting a reply, wouldn’t know what to reply with to begin with, so mindlessly continues jotting notes to distract himself from the fact that his mind is doing its best approximation of a keyboard smash at the implication that Derek thinks his room, his bed, _he_ , should smell like _Derek_.

And then he's back out Stiles' window so fast Stiles wonders if the whole encounter was just a sleep deprivation-induced delusion.

Stiles has some questions. Or, his thoughts are all currently question marks, anyway. Loud, capitalized question marks. 

His brain is clearly having some issues today. He looks down at his notes, where it looks like he’d started writing about the Spanish civil war and then trailed off into conjugations of “dormir”. 

He’s so confused by whatever that was that he’s pretty sure he’s definitely going to fail this test, especially considering that he can’t even remember if he was supposed to be studying Spanish or History.

•

Lydia looks at Stiles, looks at the leather jacket laying next to his pillow, then looks at Stiles again just as he’s rubbing his palms against his jeans in a way that Lydia knows, after years of him nervously and recklessly flirting with her, means whatever he’s about to say he’s probably already run through his head approximately 38 times. Whatever he’s about to say, whatever he’s thinking about...has him anxious. 

To say seeing people nervous around her - even if she’s not particularly the source of their nervousness - gives her a thrill would be an understatement. She didn’t become the undisputed Empress of Beacon Hills High by striking a little fear into the hearts of everyone around her because it was necessary, she did it because she liked it. The power disparity between her own confidence and the nervousness in those around her? An absolute thrill.

“I know you’d never willingly be seen in public with me,” he says, wiping his hands on his jeans again, “but can we start studying at the library from now on? Derek-“ he stops, glances at the jacket, and Lydia...smirks, is suddenly extremely interested in whatever has Stiles so riled and sweaty. Like a shark that’s just smelled blood in the water. 

If the drama of the past two years have taught her anything, it’s that any happenings involving Derek Hale are bound to be riveting.

She steals a pillow from behind where he’s sitting cross legged at the head of the bed, fluffs it, sets it at the foot of the bed and perches herself across from him, with enough room between them for a spread of books and notebooks, a full array of highlighters and post-its and colored-ink pens.

“Why? It’s quieter here,” she says, reaching into the depths of her purse to start dragging out pens and highlighters, “and there’s very little information available at the Beacon Hills Public Library that I don’t either already know or isn’t very easily accessible on the internet. In fact, I’d wager that there’s absolutely no information at the library that my brain and the internet don’t already have. Good God, Stiles have you ever considered Febreze?”

On second thought, she grabs a little bottle of perfume out. Stiles’ room smells like teenage boy sweat (she’s hoping, but not optimistic, that it’s just sweat), overpoweringly like desperation, and she’s not about to let that carry on her clothing, ew. Imagine _Lydia fucking Martin_ walking into school smelling like desperate teenage boy sweat. 

“It’s just-“ Stiles starts, cuts off, rubs a hand on the back of his neck and through his hair. He looks a little like she’s just signed his death warrant when she spritzes the perfume. Maybe jasmine and sandalwood isn’t his particular thing.

Oh, Lydia is absolutely going to enjoy this. 

“Is that Derek’s jacket? I’m unnerved that he’s running around out there somewhere without the only fashionable piece in his wardrobe.” She pauses to rearrange some items in the spread between them, then grabs a nail file from her purse because today’s subject is Biology and she’s going to get very bored very quickly. “Ew...I sincerely hope he’s not switching the leather jacket in for denim. Or did you invest in something other than a hoodie for once? Maybe Derek’s rubbing off on you more than I thought.”

Stiles chokes, immediately blushes a deep shade of pink that she thinks suits him fairly well. 

“I assure you, Derek’s not been rubbing off on me _at all_. He just...left it here. He thinks my room should smell like his pack?”

“What a shame,” she says, “to both of those statements.”

And Stiles splutters, fumbling for his flash cards - the wrong ones, Lydia takes great pleasure in noticing - because apparently Stiles is too shocked by any mention of Derek to continue his request for some weird and totally unnecessary library adventure.

She’s been the cause of Stiles’ random inability to form thoughts enough to know that that’s the case here with Derek, and she’d be dumb not to take that information and fucking run with it.

Even if it might take a little work on her end, she’s already drawn the hypothesis up and her ten year plan to be the next great female leader in the STEM field kind of depends on following through with evidence and conclusions.

She’s not just going to sit back and lose her only intellectually adequate study partner because Stiles loses a brain cell every time someone says Derek’s name. Also, she’ll be damned if she’s going to lose an ideal study location because of some frankly outdated, possessive werewolf scenting behavior. Derek can deal with it and shut the fuck up, or act like the grown man he is and do something about it instead of lurking and bitching.

For both her and Stiles’ sake, she’s hoping Derek chooses the latter option. She need Stiles’ brain fully operational, which clearly isn’t happening when Stiles is off in Dreamland over tall, dark, and devoid of manners - you definitely stop daydreaming about things once you have them, right?

It’s only a matter of time before Derek is forced to show his cards - and if the scent thing will speed the process along, well. She’s willing to accidentally dump out a $65 bottle of perfume for the cause.

•

Stiles is on his bed with a book open in his lap the next night when Derek pries Stiles’ window open and slips inside his room, and immediately all he gets is a fresh, _strong_ , whiff of Lydia’s scent lingering around the room, concentrated around Stiles’ bed, which sets his wolf on edge with an overwhelming desire to mark what’s _his_.

(And then he immediately berates himself, because Stiles may be his pack and his friend and yeah maybe he can see him as his mate eventually, but he’s not his property, not his possession, and his irrational desire to make Stiles smell like him, enough to scare off potential suitors, is just that. Irrational.)

He’s not quick enough to clear the obvious look of disproval off of his face before Stiles catches it - but with persistent bitch face, he almost fools himself into thinking that Stiles could just confuse it for his regular disproval, and not disproval at the current olfactory state of Stiles’ room.

“I actually tried to move our study thing to the library, dude, I promise,” Stiles says, and he looks....guilty? At least, his cheeks are tinged pink and he keeps glancing away from Derek’s face, at his bed - at Derek’s jacket, he notices, by his pillow - fiddling with his hands. “But she’s pretty stubborn, dunno if you’ve noticed that about her.” 

It gives Derek a certain thrill to think that Stiles slept next to his jacket, was so close to his scent all night...that maybe his scent is lingering on Stiles skin, even if it hasn’t spread to his room.

The room is quiet for a beat, Derek brooding and trying to calm his wolf by focusing on the underlying scent of Stiles (sweet, citrusy, but also a little dark, like oranges and vanilla, cloves and caramel), over the cloying scent of Lydia (a sharp botanical smell, rosemary, cedar, lavender, plus her perfume: jasmine, sandalwood, notes of patchouli and bergamot). Objectively, Lydia smells good - the rosemary reminds him of his mom, jasmine was Laura’s dominant scent, and his own scent carries a dark, woodsy, overtone that the patchouli and cedar mix well with. But masking Stiles’ delicious, invigorating, energizing scent should be considered a crime.

“Why-,” Stiles starts, voice cracking, twisting his hands together, “why does my room need to smell like pack, like you, anyway? The pack never hangs out here. And I’m like, the lowest on the totem pole as far as the pack goes, shouldn’t you be making sure your wolves smell like you before I do?”

Derek is a little hurt that Stiles considers himself that way, wants to assure him that he carries far more weight in the pack, more power, than he thinks he does. That Derek defers to Stiles for advice more than any of the betas, values his input, considers him his second. He’s working on making sure that the betas see Stiles the way he deserves to be seen: as Derek’s equal. Not a wolf, so not an Alpha, but kind of like their parent - the betas should look to Stiles for permission, for support, for guidance. Like a human Alpha, he supposes.

He knows Stiles will never take the bite unless he’s in immediate mortal danger, so being an Alpha pair is out of the question, but he’s thought of making him his mate if Stiles is willing. That way he’d know, the betas would know, how important Stiles is. There’d be no questioning Stiles’ position in the pack. Other supernaturals would know, that Stiles is off the market and off limits.

“Wolf thing,” Derek grunts out, “the wolves took my bite, so my tie to them is automatic. Scott may not have taken my bite, but he answers to me as his Alpha. Other wolves will be able to tell that they have a pack and an Alpha, and the tie would be difficult for them to sever. Short of death.” Derek sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “Packs with humans are different; the connection is less obvious. The most effective way to prove that tie to other wolves is with scentmarking. If you smell like your Alpha, other supernaturals would be...less inclined to try anything dumb.”

“Anything dumb,” Stiles repeats, “like, other supernaturals would be less inclined to recruit me, or hurt me?”

“Something like that. When human pack members carry their Alpha’s scent, they’re seen as...spoken for. Off limits. Others would know if they touched you they’d be inviting a fight.”

”So, you want me to be spoken for, by you. And when I smell like Lydia -“

“It smells like you’re off limits _to me_. Like she’s trying to claim you as hers.”

”And you want me to smell like you so it’ll smell like I’ve been claimed, by you?” 

“Yes,” Derek says, trying to keep the possessiveness he’s feeling out of his voice for fear of ruining whatever tentative friendship he’s built with Stiles. “You’re my pack, so you should smell...like mine. Like me. The other pack members scents should be secondary to mine.”

Stiles nods, then pauses again, looking a little unsure. “I slept really well last night for the first time in months, like no nightmares or anything. I think smelling you on my pillow...helped? It smells like how our house used to smell around Christmas, when my mom was still here.”

That...surprises Derek. It’s unusual for human pack members to feel that tie to their Alpha’s scent - unless their bond with their Alpha is strong, which means that Stiles must feel that tie closer to him than he’d thought.

Derek takes a second to think about his wording - he knows Stiles has considered himself part of the pack by proxy due to his friendship with Scott, but he needs him to understand that once pack ties are formed, they’re more intricate than just a relationship. Stiles may have found himself initiated into the pack just because he was friends with Scott at the time, but once Derek’s pack tie formed with Stiles it was because of Stiles, not Scott. Because of Stiles’ strength and persistence. He formed pack bonds with Stiles and Scott separately, he didn’t form a tie with StilesandScott as one; his tie with Stiles is not dependent on his tie with Scott. Stiles is pack, and he needs to know that.

“It’s common, for pack members to seek out their Alpha’s scent for comfort,” he says. Stiles is wringing his hands together, nodding along vaguely. “It’s usually stronger for the wolf pack members, but.”

“But?”

Derek takes in a long, even breath. Stiles smells so good, warm and soft and sweet. 

“But if their tie to their Alpha is strong enough, the scent can effect human members, too.”

“Oh.” Stiles says. He looks curious, like he’s taking all of the new information in and trying to sort through it and figure it out. Then, quieter, “What do I smell like, to you?”

Derek has never deluded himself into thinking that his control over his urges is better than it is - especially when Stiles is involved, and his control is quickly torn to shreds. So he has just about no qualms about his next move; gets up from where he’d been propped against the windowsill, crosses over to where Stiles is on his bed, leans over him, takes his chin in his hand and listens to his jackrabbit fast heartbeat in the split second before he dips his face into the crook of Stiles’ neck and takes a greedy inhale.

He lingers for longer than he thinks can be considered acceptable, drags his nose along Stiles’ bared throat and groans, feeling drunk on Stiles’ smell. When he pulls away and looks down at Stiles’ face, his eyes are half- lidded and glassy and his cheeks are flushed. Derek’s wolf salivates a little bit.

“It’s hard to explain to humans in a way they’d understand,” Derek says, and he’d be a fool to pretend his voice was anything less than gravelly. If Stiles were a wolf, if he understood scent the way wolves do, he’d tell him he smelled like moonlight, or family, or happiness.

Stiles makes a noise, a little “um” or maybe “hm”, and Derek only realizes his fingers are still wrapped around Stiles’ jaw because the exclamation means Stiles’ breath is hot on his thumb. He releases his chin and takes a step back before he does something reckless and borderline illegal, and Stiles blinks up at him and his voice sounds like he’s been deethroating a chainsaw when he says, “So make me understand,” like he’s _daring_ him.

Again, Derek is not a man of much control when it comes to Stiles. Especially with the scent Stiles is currently exuding: spicy, sweet. That orange and clove smell, but more saturated, more intense - the smell of his arousal is permeating the air.

Derek growls, grabs Stiles’ chin in his fingers again and tilts his head, shoves his face into his neck to breathe him in again. “You smell fucking _incredible_ ,” he says. “Right now you smell horny and nervous, you smell like oranges and cloves and cinnamon. You smell like how the pull of the full moon feels to me.” He draws in a deep breath, nose bumping Stiles’ skin, lips hovering right above Stiles’ throat, and he can feel Stiles’ pulse racing underneath his mouth. “It’s hard for me to describe, because it’s hard to fucking _think_ around you.” He brushes his lips against Stiles’ throat, and his wolf is itching underneath his skin with the desire to suck and mark and rub Derek’s scent all over him. “I need to make you smell like me, Stiles. I need to...”

“What?” Stiles asks, his voice breathy, and Derek swears he hears a hint of a moan. 

“I need to mark you. I need there to be no question that you’re _mine_.”

Stiles does moan then, loud and broken. “Please,” he says, and he ducks his head to ghost his lips over Derek’s thumb, and whatever vestige of Derek’s control was remaining fucking _shatters_ ; all he needed was permission.

He uses his grip on Stiles’ chin to tilt his head back, which earns him an extremely satisfying uptick of his heart to match his quick intake of breath, and then drags his mouth along his throat to find the hinge at his neck and shoulder, which he’s been dying to put his mark on.

And then he opens his mouth and _sucks_ , hard, ensuring a bruise will form. When he pulls back he laves his tongue over the mark, soothing it and reveling in the taste of Stiles’ skin. Stiles is trembling like a leaf beneath him, his breath coming out in wrecked little huffs. 

“Take your shirt off,” Derek says, in between biting kisses to the same spot on his neck. His teeth are going to leave indents, but Stiles isn’t complaining, so he’s not stopping. “Gonna put my mouth all over you, gonna get my scent so deep in you that everyone will smell me on you a mile away.” Derek lifts his head and presses a playful, biting kiss to the hinge of Stiles’ jaw that leaves his fingers clenching in his sheet; his hands are shaking too bad to work his shirt off, so Derek strips it for him, runs his hands along every smooth inch of skin as he bares it. “Won’t be able to differentiate our scents, won’t be able to tell where you end and I start. Lay down.”

Stiles groans, collapsing back into his bed, which, unfortunately, means the removal of Derek’s mouth from his neck. Derek takes the opportunity to strip his own shirt off, tosses it somewhere behind him, and when he looks down at Stiles, he’s licking his lips and staring at Derek’s newly-unclothed stomach.

Derek, at this point, has approximately zero control left. Which he makes pretty clear with an animalistic growl, and if that weren’t an obvious enough show: he follows it by crawling on top of Stiles like a predator about to consume his prey - which, he supposes, is a pretty accurate description of his intentions.

He _thoroughly_ enjoys the skin-to-skin contact the shirtlessness allows, and if the way Stiles is shivering and attempting so sweetly to buck his hips under the weight of Derek’s body is any indication, so does he.

But he has plans for all that pretty, unmarked skin beneath him, and those plans mainly involve marking it the fuck up, so he snakes a hand between their bodies and steadies the bucking of Stiles’ hips so he can get back to where he left off, mauling and bruising Stiles’ neck.

He takes his time, relishing Stiles’ stifled whimpers when he sucks the spot right under his ear, the aborted movements of his hips every time he scrapes his stubble over one of the blossoming bruises on his neck. Relishes the smell of Stiles leaking drops of precum in his underwear every time he licks his throat, presses an open-mouthed kiss to his shoulder. 

His fingers are digging into the flesh right above Stiles’ waistband, and he can tell there will be bruising there later, too, which only makes him want to press and mark harder, make them last for weeks. He uses his hand on Stiles’ hip to give him a little leverage, grinds down into him to give them both some much needed relief; which in turn causes Stiles to produce the sweetest sound he’s ever heard, and he has to break away from where he’s mouthing at Stiles’ shoulder to groan into the curve of his neck. 

He knows he told Stiles it was difficult to explain to humans, but the truth is he’s having a difficult time explaining it even to himself; he’s not entirely sure where the urge to mark Stiles as _his_ is coming from, doesn’t know why it’s so intense, just knows that if he doesn’t satisfy it there will be consequences from his wolf. He just knows that Stiles smells delicious, smells even better like this, smells best when his scent is mixed with Derek’s - like a grove of orange trees hidden in a moonlit forest, like waking up to mulling spices and warm cookies in front of the wood-burning fireplace in his family’s cabin.

Stiles’ hand is in his hair, and he drags his face away from Stiles’ neck to drop a fleeting kiss to his chin; even under the present circumstances he’s not sure if Stiles would welcome his mouth on his - it feels like crossing a boundary, and he’s not entirely sure how far he’s allowed to take this. Stiles has been amenable, even enthusiastic, about the scentmarking so far, but he’s worried he’s pushing Stiles too far too fast. 

But Stiles uses his hand in his hair to tilt his head up a little, guides him closer to his mouth, and if that wasn’t the encouragement Derek was looking for he’s not sure what would be. So he seizes the opportunity, kisses him hard, gets Stiles’ plush lower lip between his and sucks on it until it’s swollen and cherry-red, and when he pulls away Stiles is panting, looks thoroughly devastated. 

“Fuck,” Stiles says. His voice is hoarse. His fingers are delicate, relaxed in Derek’s hair, and Derek honestly isn’t faring much better - he feels torn apart, like Stiles is destroying and reshaping him into something new. Still, he feels like he should probably check in on Stiles, make sure he can take this where he wants to, where at this point may be inevitable.

“If you want me to stop, tell me now.”

Stiles’ hand suddenly clenches in his hair, and his eyes jerk open so he can look right up at Derek.

“No way,” he says, and then he drags Derek’s face back down to his, kisses him, pokes his tongue out tentatively to lick Derek’s lip until he gets the message and lets him in, tangles his tongue with Stiles’.

But it’s not enough - he was serious when he said he needed to get his scent _all over_ Stiles, so he ignores Stiles’ whine when he pulls away again, and then the whine turns into a series of truly delicious moans when he slides down to trail open-mouthed kisses down his throat and across his chest. And then the moans turn back to whines when he gets his mouth over a nipple, teases it until it’s puffy and hard.

Stiles’ hips start twitching up again, little half-thrusts in search of friction. Derek isn’t a sadist, so he moves his hand from where it’s holding Stiles’ hip down to palm over his crotch while he pays the same attention to his other nipple, and the combination makes Stiles shake, held together by the thinnest of strings.

He pauses to press a wet kiss right below Stiles’ rib, glances up to see Stiles with his eyes shut tight and his head thrown back into his pillow. The stretch of his neck is tempting.

“You can come if you need to,” he says, scratches his stubble over Stiles’ sensitive nipple, wraps his fingers firmly around the bulge of Stiles’ dick through his pajamas. They’re damp where he’s been leaking precum in a steady stream, and the smell of it is making Derek’s mouth water. “But I’m not finished with you yet.”

Stiles lets out a string of not-quite words that sound more like mewls and desperate sobs, and then Derek kisses down his chest to press his face into his stomach, licks right below his belly button, and Stiles’ back arches and Derek smells it when he cums, soaking through his pajama pants. Derek can’t resist, _doesn’t_ resist; has to dip his head to get closer to the source of that delicious smell, noses along the line of Stiles’ cock through his pants while Stiles is squirming through the aftershocks, oversensitive, hips jerking away or towards him when Derek strokes him through his pants instead of taking his hand off of him.

The smell of Stiles like this, laid bare and vulnerable before him, strong and pure and sharp, is so inviting. He gulps in the scent, lightheaded with it. 

Stiles is twitching against him when he lowers his mouth to his crotch, breathes him in and licks at where his cum is soaking through his too-thin pants. The taste of it on his tongue has him eager for more - he wishes he’d had Stiles in his mouth when he’d cum so he could’ve had it all instead of having to desperately lick up the remnants.

His own erection is pulsing where it’s trapped in his jeans, and everything in him is telling him to jerk off and spread his cum all over Stiles, bathe him in it, rub his cum into his skin so deep he won’t be able to wash him off. But he’s not done yet.

He slides back up Stiles’ body, and the loss of his face against Stiles’ pelvis is only tolerable because it means he can kiss him again. Stiles is limp underneath him, easily accepts Derek’s tongue when he presses his thumb against his slack jaw, urges him to open his mouth. He smells sated, calmer now that the frustrating need for orgasm has drained the tension from his body.

Derek nudges his nose against Stiles’, presses chaste kisses to his cheeks, his forehead, the tip of his nose. The sweetness is a good, if momentary, distraction from the filthiness of what he intends to do to him.

“Can I fuck you?” he asks, smoothing a hand up and down Stiles’ side, and the nonchalance of the question is betrayed by the way his dick is currently a long, hard line of heat pressing against Stiles’ thigh.

“Not fair,” Stiles groans, “how can you still make words, you haven’t even put your dick in me yet and I’m pretty sure you’ve already fucked all the brain cells out of my head.” He searches out Derek’s mouth again, kisses him long and languid, pulls back breathless and, impossibly, already chubbing up in his pajamas again.

“Clearly not the case if you’re still talking,” he replies, and he’s smiling against Stiles’ mouth. He stills his hand where he’s been petting Stiles’ side, grips his waist tight until he’s sure there’ll be hand-shaped bruises there too. 

Stiles is going to be a masterpiece in the morning, a mess of bruises and bite marks and hickeys that will leave him a work of art worthy of the fucking Louvre.

Stiles uses whatever energy he has left to lift his leg and hook it around Derek’s hip, pulls him down to grind against him, and the pressure sets off what feels like a lightening storm throughout Derek’s nerves, has his wolf threatening to howl and mount and claim.

“Stiles,” he growls, and for a second he’s proud he’s managed to maintain some glimmer of control. At least enough that the hand gripping Stiles’ waist has remained clawless, which he’s sure Stiles would appreciate if he currently had the clarity of mind or cognitive ability to appreciate things. “I _need_ to fuck you.”

Stiles nods vigorously. “Good, ‘cus I kinda need you to fuck me or I might die.”

Permission granted, Derek is flooded with the sudden overwhelming desire to get Stiles naked beneath him, which requires dislodging Stiles’ leg from where it’s curled around him. Derek laments the loss, but the reminder that he’ll be inside of Stiles soon fuels him, so he sits back on his heels, tugs Stiles’ sticky pajamas down and then stands to peel his own jeans off in what’s probably a record-setting time. 

He also uses the opportunity while he’s up to take in Stiles’ newly naked body, his slim waist and his long, lean legs. His face is slack and freckled, blotchy red and so innocent, his neck and chest are mottled with blossoming red and purple bruises, dotted throughout with little birthmarks and moles. His happy trail and the V where his pelvis meets his thighs are streaked with drying globs of cum, and his dick is just as long and slender as the rest of him, half-hard.

His thighs, Derek realizes, are regretfully smooth and unbruised; Derek can and will fix that.

Stiles must feel his gaze burning on his body, because he opens his eyes and seeks Derek out, looking young and sweet and timid again. But then he catches an eyeful of where Derek’s cock is thick and huge and rock fucking hard against his stomach, and whatever was making him nervous clearly floats away as he realizes _he_ is the reason Derek is barely holding onto his control, dick leaking and looking five seconds and one solid thrust away from shooting his load all over.

“Lube?”

“Um,” Stiles says, loses his train of thought for a second, gaze still fixated on Derek’s abs, Derek’s dick, Derek’s ridiculously muscular thighs. “Drawer?”

Derek nearly rips the drawer out of the nightstand in search of it, impatient and starving to get back between the splay of Stiles’ gorgeous thighs.

He wastes no time crawling back on top of Stiles once he satisfactorily acquires the bottle, immediately groans when he finally feels Stiles naked against him, takes at least a solid minute to indulge in the warmth and the softness, even if it means he’s probably crushing Stiles where he’s essentially just laying a wall of muscle on top of him. He slicks the fingers on his right hand, uses the other to hold Stiles down and rut against him until Stiles is once again reduced to a puddle of want and need.

“Next time,” he says, which yields an almost pornographically wanton moan from Stiles at the implication that there will be _more_ , assuming the impending mind blowing, earth shattering orgasm he’s about to have doesn’t actually kill him, “give you my knot, fill you up until you’re swollen and my cum fucking _gushes_ out of you.”

Stiles practically convulses under him at the absolute filth of that statement. He lifts Stiles’ leg back to its previous position, thigh wrapped around his hip and foot resting on the back of his knee. Shifts his weight to his left arm, effectively caging Stiles in, and trails two of his slick fingers to rub, just gently, testing, at Stiles’ hole. And then to prevent even the slimmest possibility of those beautiful bruises on Stiles’ neck and throat from fading before he gets a chance to mark him again, he latches his mouth over one of the spots under Stiles’ ear that seemed to drive him crazy earlier; sucks softly while he starts to apply pressure with his fingers against Stiles’ hole, smoothing out the muscle until Stiles relaxes and unclenches.

“Wanna plug my cum up inside you, keep it there until my scent is so deep it’ll become a permanent part of your scent,” he says, finally pressing just the tip of his index finger into Stiles. Stiles is so fucking tight, even when he’s all slack and loose-limbed, and Derek is suddenly and uncomfortably reminded of the fact that this is Stiles’ first time, that even if Stiles has touched himself like this before - and Derek’s sure he has, based on the way he’s so fucking receptive to it - even his fingers will be more of a stretch than Stiles’ is probably used to, Derek’s thick fingers a far cry from Stiles’ slender hands.

He’s also almost a little bothered that the idea of stretching Stiles out on his cock, that being the first to fuck him, have him like this, is turning him on so much. Almost. He never claimed to be perfect. _Never_ disputed his moral greyness; he’s a predator, after all. He knows it, Stiles knows it; Stiles is accepting of it, even seems to be enjoying it. 

He’s not ashamed at all that his response to that train of thought is to slide his finger fully into Stiles. He’s so warm and smooth and tight inside, and Derek can’t wait to feel that on his dick.

Also, while he’s always had pretty enviable stamina, he’s kind of impressed that as eager as the wolf is to cover Stiles in his scent, he hasn’t managed to blow his load and do just that yet. Maybe a testament to how badly he wants to take his time working his scent into Stiles’ skin until it’s permanent.

“Gonna have you crying on my dick,” he says, low, breath hot by Stiles’ ear. “fuck you ‘til you’re _gagging_ for my come.”

Stiles sobs out a couple of unintelligible words, mixed in with more of those sweet little desperate noises, while Derek drags his finger along Stiles’ inner walls, exploring, but purposefully avoiding his prostate.

“Maybe next time I’ll eat you out,” he muses, groaning at the thought. He’s half thinking out loud at this point; he’s already abandoned whatever moral boundaries he may have had, might as well resign himself to being an irredeemable pervert and just confess to every fantasy he’s ever had. “Get you all wet like a bitch in heat, have you begging for my fingers or my dick inside you.”

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles cries, “I’m already begging for it if you can’t tell and if you don’t put your dick in me right now I’m gonna cum again.”

Derek shrugs, like he’s not just as desperate as Stiles is, like he’s not also gagging to shove his dick inside Stiles’ tight heat.

“I already told you, you can come whenever you need to, but I’m not stopping until you reek of me, until you’re drenched in my cum.”

And then he curls his finger inside Stiles, rubs against his sweet spot, and Stiles spasms and cums again, cock untouched, like he was just waiting for Derek’s permission; which, Jesus, Derek had accepted that he was a pervert and a deviant but the idea of Stiles surrendering himself to him like that, giving Derek complete control over his body and his pleasure, unlocks a whole new level of depravity in him. His wolf fucking _aches_ with it.

On top of that, the smell of Stiles’ cum unhindered from clothing is amplified, and Derek has to concentrate very hard with his finger still in Stiles to _not_ pop his claws out. He may or may not, however, be pressing what may or may not be fangs against Stiles’ neck.

If Stiles thought Derek would give him even a ten second break to recover, he’s sorely mistaken - the looseness of his muscles afforded by his orgasm gives Derek the perfect opportunity to slide a second finger into him. He’s not evil, though, so he takes pity and avoids Stiles’ prostate, so the intrusion might cause him some discomfort but won’t actually hurt him. 

Stiles blindly throws an arm out, tangles his fingers in Derek’s hair again, grasping weakly like his orgasm has drained every last bit of energy from him. Which is probably true, because he’s lax and his hole opens up easily for the thrusting of Derek’s fingers. He’s struck by how fucking cute and pure Stiles is, and if Derek weren’t intent on thoroughly debauching him, he’d probably be content to just kiss and pet and play with him for hours at a time. Maybe another time.

Still, he prefers Stiles needy and enthusiastic and not loose-limbed and about to pass out from it. So he drags his mouth away from his ear, kisses him relentlessly while he stretches his still-too-tight hole.

Even fucked out and cum-dumb, Stiles is responsive; gives back as good as he gets, kisses sloppy and a little overzealous, but Derek’s not complaining. Stiles has to break away to draw in a shaky breath every time Derek slides his fingers long and slow into him. He’s passive for a few long minutes, hazy, probably already growing exhausted - Derek hasn’t exactly been as careful as he could’ve been with him, and he’ll definitely be sore in the morning.

And then Stiles drops his hand from his hair to his shoulder, digs his nails in and tips his head away from Derek’s mouth to moan, and Derek has never been so grateful for the practically non-existent refractory period of teenage boys as he is now. Stiles starts grinding his hips down onto Derek’s fingers, shameless, and Derek doesn’t have to look down to know that Stiles is already starting to get hard again.

He reciprocates Stiles’ renewed liveliness, fingerfucks him until he’s sure Stiles is about to cry from the combination of the overstimulation and maybe a little bit of pain from the fact that his dick’s gotten hard three times in what must be under an hour. Even though his mind is clearly in the game, his body must be protesting a little bit. Derek feels a little guilty - not for debasing a virginal teenager, he’s well past that, but between the bites and bruises and, okay, the not-gentle treatment to his hole, Stiles must be feeling a pretty decent amount of discomfort under the pleasure. 

Not that he thinks Stiles doesn’t have any masochistic tendencies; he runs with wolves, he fights like a wolf, he lets his mouth get him into a fair bit of trouble. He wouldn’t be surprised if Stiles enjoyed mild painplay in the bedroom, actually. Something for him to consider.

(Not that he hasn’t already considered pulling Stiles over his lap and spanking him. It’s crossed his mind once or twice.)

He pulls his fingers out gently, ignoring a mewl at the sudden unwelcome emptiness, to re-lube up his hand; he’s gonna need a _bit_ more stretching if he plans to get Derek’s cock in him without actual physical injury. Again, Stiles may not currently be in possession of the mental fortitude to appreciate things, but Derek doesn’t want to traumatize him. Not if he plans on fucking him again and again, forever.

Derek looks down at Stiles’ face, open and honest and a little broken. 

“Can you handle a third?”

Stiles blinks, confusedly. “Orgasm? Probably not, I think my dick would actually fall off if I came again right now.”

That startles a laugh out of Derek. He leans down to kiss him, close-mouthed and far too wholesome for the things he’s about to do. “Third finger, Stiles. Are you ready? Or do you want me to keep going with two?”

“Ngh,” Stiles says. It’s not a confirmation or a denial, so he waits. “Three please.”

It’s not quite begging, but Derek thinks Stiles couldn’t summon the words if he tried.

He spreads some extra lube around Stiles’ hole; if he was tight around two of Derek’s fingers, he expects Stiles is more excited than he is prepared for the stretch of three, and he wants to make sure he’s extra wet to accommodate him, limit the discomfort and prevent any physical damage.

Derek kisses Stiles’ jaw, partially to distract him from the initial unpleasantness of three fingers pressing into him, partially since it’s been too long - read, approximately ten minutes - since his mouth has been on Stiles’ jaw. It’s a nice jaw. Smooth, unstubbled. Salty, because he’s sweating.

And then he starts to ramble again, because control is fleeting, and Stiles seemed to like it a lot when he was discussing all the dirty things he wanted to do to him.

“You feel so fucking good on my fingers, so tight,” he says, mouthing down to the hinge of Stiles’ jaw where there’s already a decent-sized bruise that he just wants to freshen up. “One day I’m gonna have you just sit on my lap and ride my fingers, fuck yourself on them. Use my stomach to get yourself off, again and again and again.”

Stiles screws himself down until Derek’s fingers are knuckle-deep, emboldened by his words. “Ngh,” he says. Word of the day. Derek agrees.

He takes his time working him open with three fingers; drilling him into the mattress was fun, but right now he needs to focus solely on prepping and not on toying with him. Or with himself, for that matter. His dick is starting to pulse, red and probably angry with him for taking so long.

Stiles doesn’t seem to mind, at least, enjoys the leisurely change of pace. Not that his asshole is going to have time to recover fully from the former jackhammering he was given, since Derek’s definitely going to ram him _brutally_ once he finally gets inside of him.

“I think tomorrow I’ll fuck your mouth,” Derek says, and his tone is even, masks the desire he feels at the image of Stiles choking on his cock. “Pull out, spray your face with my spunk. Let it seep into your pores so you can’t face the betas without them _knowing_ , smelling it all over you. Or maybe I’ll spill in your mouth, let you taste me, let it fill up your mouth until you choke trying to swallow it all down. Get it deep inside you, so the betas will be able to smell it lingering.”

Stiles’ blunt fingernails dig into his shoulder blade as he gasps and his hole clenches around his fingers, which Derek takes to mean that he likes the idea of that as much as he does. His own dick is steadily dripping precum now, nestled perfectly in the V where Stiles’ thighs and crotch meet. It’s pooling there, and the second Derek has both hands free again he’s absolutely going to smear it all over Stiles.

“Der’k,” he slurs, can’t quite work his name out correctly, and he sounds fucking sex-drunk, stupid with it. “Please.”

“Please what, baby. Tell me what you need.” He’s not exactly sure how or why the pet name slips out, but the way Stiles moans when he says it makes him crook his fingers and rub, a little cruelly. 

“Oh my god,” Stiles wails, ”Please fuck me, or make me cum again, but if I cum again first and black out please still fuck me.”

Derek hums an affirmative, kisses him again, chaste and delicate, marvels at how he’s managed to consistently and simultaneously kiss him so carefully while he thoroughly defiles his body. It’s somewhat of a feat. Derek’s proud.

“Please,” Stiles whispers again, this time quieter and almost timid. His voice is shaky, wet - he might actually be about to cry, and even though he thinks Stiles could use more prep he can’t deny either of them anymore.

This is starting to feel more like a claiming than a scentmarking, and he hates feeling so possessive and primal, more wolf than man, so he decides to give Stiles one last chance to shove him away and run for the hills. He stills his fingers, which prompts Stiles to open his eyes and look at his face so he can see Derek’s being genuine.

“If I fuck you, you’re mine,” he says, suddenly nervous that maybe Stiles _will_ reject him, and okay, where did that self-consciousness come from? “Wolves are loyal, we don’t do casual. Not fuck buddies, not friends with benefits. Mates.”

“Oh my god, you dense oaf, I thought we covered this,” Stiles sighs, but he’s smiling, giddy, and he smells so happy, bursts of cinnamon and sugar and vanilla. “I like-like you, you like-like me. I’m yours. As long as you’re mine, too.”

“I don’t do casual,” Derek repeats. “Mates are an equal partnership, I’ll belong to you as much as you’ll belong to me.”

Stiles cringes when Derek slides his fingers out of him, the emptiness unpleasant and the exact opposite of what he needs, what they both need.

“I’m gonna fuck you now,” Derek says, inaccurate, he definitely growls, and sits back up on his haunches to pour what’s probably an unnecessary amount of lube on his cock. He wraps his non-sticky hand around Stiles thigh, forming an entire hand shaped bruise that’s going to look amazing against his pale skin when it purples.

Also, while he’s loved marking Stiles up in visible places, leaving evidence that Stiles is claimed, is his, for everyone they know to witness; his favorite bruises might be the ones that will be hidden by Stiles’ clothing. The ones only he will know are there, like a private brand.

Stiles’ breath catches in his throat when Derek rubs the tip of his dick against his hole, and he throws his hand out to circle around Derek’s wrist, for support or comfort, or maybe both. Derek uses his grip on Stiles’ leg to re-position him, places his leg over his shoulder instead for better leverage.

And then he concentrates, gathers every quickly disappearing fragment of control he possesses to slide into Stiles a single inch at a time to not overwhelm him. It takes an eternity for him to bottom out, and another eternity for him to calm down once he’s done so - Stiles is hotter and tighter and _wetter_ around him than he could’ve ever imagined, could’ve ever hoped for. Like Stiles’ body was fucking molded just for him. He stays completely still for a long moment until he feels like he can move without immediately busting.

Stiles is a livewire of tension beneath him, shivering so uncontrollably he’s practically vibrating. One of his hands is clenching and unclenching in his sheet, the other tugging Derek’s hair, pulling him close to his chest - even though it means his leg is being stretched and squished between them in ways that are less than ideal - while they both adjust to the feeling.

On the plus side, now that Derek’s replaced his fingers with his dick he has both hands free to roam over Stiles’ body. The options are endless, but he settles with one hand gripping Stiles’ ass to pull him down onto his cock, the other on the side of his waist that doesn’t currently have any finger-shaped bruises, which he intends to fix soon enough with how fucking tight his grip is.

“Fuck,” Derek grunts. He can feel red starting to bleed into his eyes, has to concentrate in a way he’s never had to before to avoid shifting. Possibly the most important thought that prevents him from shifting is the realization that his wolf’s dick is bigger, and Stiles is already stretched almost impossibly tight; shifting now would destroy him, definitely mentally and probably literally.

“Ngh,” Stiles says again.

He opens his eyes, clamoring for something else to take his attention off of the tightwethot pressure around his dick, notices Stiles’ collarbone is lacking hickeys. Which is, frankly, unacceptable, and will serve as a perfect distraction while he gets his fucking life together. Where is that “enviable stamina” that he was talking about earlier? Out the window, obviously. Maybe just further proof that he’s been fucking the wrong people for the last five years.

He keeps his hips still, flush against Stiles’, and dips his head to suck the first in a series of hickeys over his collarbone that’ll look like the world’s weirdest necklace when they color tomorrow.

Somewhere around the third hickey, he starts to feel like he can finally move without hurting Stiles or busting like _he’s_ the one losing his virginity. Still, he moves like a fucking tortoise, because while he seems to be managing if he takes it slow, any abrupt movement at this point could absolutely set his cock off.

He drags his dick out of Stiles slowly, and Stiles is clenching and his walls are clinging to him like he can’t bear even the temporary loss of Derek’s dick inside of him. He needs to get Stiles relaxed, or he’s going to be too tight for any actual fucking to occur, which would just be tragic. The best solution there would be to get Stiles to cum again, so his body will be more accepting of the intrusion; the issue, however, is in figuring out how to make Stiles cum without shooting off himself.

Derek hisses on his first admittedly shaky thrust back in. At least it’s more coherent than the mishmash of half-words and half-noises that Stiles lets out, so.

Okay, objective: Get Stiles to Cum Again. Step one: dirty talk? He seemed to like the pet name, too.

“You feel so good, baby,” he groans, follows it with a vicious bite to his throat. “Want you on your hands and knees next time, so I can watch you take my dick. Pull out and spray my seed all over your back, bathe you in it.”

As expected, it garners the response Derek was looking for: Stiles shakes like he’s barely holding on to himself. If Derek were the sharing type, if Stiles weren’t too young and shy, he’d film them, put it online, and Stiles would single-handedly put every twink in the industry out of business, the way he _sounds_ , Jesus.

He sets a tantalizingly slow pace, pulling his dick almost all of the way out of Stiles and sliding back in inch by inch. Stiles is still too tense pre-orgasm, though, he can’t drill into him the way he wants. Step two: abuse his erogenous zones.

Derek moves his face back to that spot under Stiles’ ear, slides the hand gripping Stiles’ waist up his ribcage to thumb his nipple, which still looks tender and sensitive from the earlier treatment. On his next thrust in he aims right for where he knows Stiles’ prostate should be, not on-point but close enough to just brush against it, tease him. The next few thrusts hurt, Stiles’ hole clamping like a vice around him, and he must be right on the edge.

Stiles’ fingers seize and spasm in his hair, his leg twitches. His face is twisted up at the overstimulation, the most torturous combination of pleasure and pain; this should be fairly quick. Step three.

“You did so good, holding on until I got inside you,” he says. He gives in to his own pleasure, fingernails lengthening until there are claws lightly scratching the side of Stiles’ ribcage. “You can let go now. You can come whenever you need to, sweetheart.”

Yeah, that does it. Stiles breaks underneath him, shudders apart, cum splashing both of their bellies where they’re pressed together. And then he’s back to boneless, floating, hole finally loosening and unclenching around Derek’s dick. 

Derek doesn’t lie to himself; he’s not going to last much longer. The second Stiles’ hole releases its death grip on his cock he pulls out, braces his forearms on the bed, and pounds into him, relentless, dicking him with a ferocity only a werewolf could achieve, doesn’t even bother avoiding Stiles’ prostate. Stiles takes it like a champ, too weak and fucked out to even cry about the oversensitivity, just lays back, mouth agape, and lets the pounding drag his orgasm out into quivers and aftershocks.

Derek’s close, considers cumming inside of him and letting it soak into him like he’d talked about. Maybe another time - now, he wants to rub his cum all over Stiles’ skin, get his scent on the surface so everyone around them will _know_ before he puts it in him, makes it part of him, entwines it with Stiles’ own scent.

Maybe ten strokes later he’s at the brink. He pulls out, dislodges himself from where he’d been clinging to Stiles, shoulders Stiles’ leg off of him, kneels between his splayed thighs.

He gets his hand on himself and one solid jerk later he’s groaning, spraying what might actually be a gallon of cum all over Stiles’ stomach, so much it streaks up his chest, hits his chin. Pools and mixes with Stiles’ cum where it’s settled on his belly. Stiles doesn’t even flinch.

There’s sweat dripping down his abs when he finally stops cumming, the last spurts of it dribbling down his own cock to puddle on his balls. He looks at Stiles just in time to catch him swiping the cum off his chin, seemingly unconsciously bring his fingers to his mouth to taste it, which, Jesus, if Derek hadn’t literally just cum, that would’ve set him off again.

Now that Derek’s come to terms with being a shameless, lust-driven hedonist, he might as well go big or go home, and he’s not going home, so. So he’s obviously gonna rub his cum into Stiles’ skin, as if doing that was ever _not_ the endgame.

He collects the last bit of cum from his cock, because there’s no way he’s letting a single drop of it go to waste. And then he leans over, smooths his hands on Stiles’ stomach, pressing maybe a little harder than is necessary to thoroughly massage the scent into his flesh before it dries and gets too tacky to work with. Like fucking finger paint.

“Mm,” Stiles hums when Derek’s thumbs dip into his bellybutton. “Weirdo.”

Derek laughs, a little manically, because yeah, he definitely is. He can’t even blame this on being a werewolf; he’s definitely enjoying this more than it just being about scentmarking or claiming. It’s primal, sure, that’s a big part of it. It was always just to get off with his prior conquests, with Kate and Jennifer and the random one night stands in between, just to satisfy the need. Which left him with a mountain of trust issues. But with Stiles it’s different, intimate; he can enjoy that closeness again. 

“Would you expect anything less, fucking a werewolf?”

“Didn’t say I didn’t like it,” Stiles moans, swatting his hand away when he gets too close to his poor, overworked dick. “Stop that, my dick is out of order for the next two to three business days. Closed, cerrado, on vacation. Try again later.”

Derek’s not unsympathetic. One orgasm nearly took him out, he’s impressed Stiles is in any condition to talk after the ride he’s just been on. He leans in to kiss him, closed-mouthed and tentative, maybe an apology for the less-than-sweet fucking he just put him through.

“Are you okay?”

“No,” Stiles says, yawns, then, “yeah. I feel really good but I think you killed me. My butt hurts.”

Derek reaches down between them, presses his fingers gingerly to Stiles’ rim, checking for tearing or blood. It’s mostly just a mess of lube, soft and raw and a little stretched-out, but he should be fine by tomorrow. 

“Want me to take the pain away?”

Stiles shakes his head firmly. “Nuh-uh. Makes it feel real.” Then his eyes snap open, comically wide, and Derek knows he’s overthinking what just happened and he’s about to think himself into a panic attack, which Derek is not going to allow.

“I was serious,” he says, and he even stops where he’s still rubbing disgusting gooey circles into Stiles’ skin so that he knows it’s not just sex. “Not casual. Not fuck buddies.” 

“So. Mates?” Stiles’ gaze drifts off into the distance, still thinking.

“If you’re okay with that, yes, I’d like for you to be my mate.”

“Yeah, duh.” Derek knows he was aiming for uncaring, but he’s smiling. “Wait. Do you really have a knot?” 

Derek smirks, presses his thumb in hard under his ribcage. “I wasn’t lying about anything I said.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, and then a shiver wracks through him, remembering. They settle for a few minutes, Stiles drifting in and out of lucidity and Derek still determinedly working his smell into Stiles’ skin. It’s starting to dry, flaky and uncomfortable. He waits until Stiles is blinking lazily back up at him, and then taps his fingers against his hip.

“We should shower,” he muses, “you’ll never forgive me if you wake up covered in dry cum.”

“Ew,” Stiles laughs. “Not with the fucking firehouse of semen you just dumped on me.”

Derek shrugs, doesn’t really regret it at all. His wolf is absurdly proud of it. Stiles smells like him now. Even when he washes it off, it’ll probably still be clinging to him under the shower gel and shampoo and deodorant. He flashes him a look that clearly says “and I’ll do it again.”.

He peels himself off of Stiles, and okay, he admits that having to literally peel himself off of him because the cum is sticking them together is disgusting and generally unpleasant. However, the sight of watching Stiles wobble like a newborn deer when he gets up is definitely up there in terms of his favorite memories.

“Yeah, ha ha, keep smiling, you ridiculous dork, this is totally your fault. Congrats, I have to fuck you forever now because you ruined me for everyone else. Or ruined everyone else for me, probably.”

_Yeah, that was the point_ , Derek thinks, stupid proud of himself.

They stay under the spray of water for a ridiculously long time, until the bathroom looks like a sauna. Derek does his best to keep his hands away from his ass and cock, but that doesn’t stop him from touching the rest of him. And now that he’s not busy trying to fuck Stiles into a stupor, he gets to appreciate all the bruises he’s put on him, so he’s taking it as a win.

•

Later, when they’re back in Stiles’ too-small-for-two-people bed, when Stiles is drifting in that hazy space between conscious and unconscious, and Derek’s pressed all along his back, he presses his lips to an unmarked spot on the back of his neck, too gently to be called a kiss.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, so soft, like he doesn’t want the words to break the air between them.

Stiles sighs, presses back into him. “Hmm?”

“For letting me claim you.” Derek waits a beat. That was hardly the troubling bit to get out. “I didn’t think I’d ever get to have a mate.”

Stiles searches his hand out, tangles their fingers together. “I didn’t _let_ you do anything, you doofus. I wanted it.” He squeezes his hand, reassuring. “And I may not know much about mates, but I’m glad I’m yours. You deserve to have good things, Der.” The “God knows you’ve been through enough bad shit” part goes unspoken, but it’s there.

Stiles holds his hand until the exhaustion finally overcomes him, and when Derek’s sure he’s passed out, when his heartbeat is steady and even, when his hand is lax in his, he squeezes his fingers and kisses the back of his neck.

•

The next day when Lydia comes over to study and immediately scrunches her face up, Stiles regrets not having the idea to capture her priceless expression on camera. She chokes dramatically at the overwhelming stench of his room, covers her mouth and gags, the smell of cum stale and persistent because Stiles is disgusting and shameless and hasn’t changed his sheets or even thought about spraying Febreeze, like the inconsiderate asshole that he is.

When she’s done hacking up a lung, she still has to pull her scarf over her mouth and nose before she can speak without retching.

“On the plus side,” she says, pausing to breathe pointedly into her scarf, “I was right, and Scott owes me $100. On the downside-“

“There’s a down side?” Stiles interrupts, and he’s choking himself, but it’s because he’s laughing so hard.

“ _On the down side_ ,” she continues, “we have to study at Beacon Hills Public Library now, because I’m never stepping foot into this room again,” she shudders at the thought of being in a public library. Ew, peasants. “We’ll go tomorrow, since, judging by the smell alone, I’m sure he fucked every useful brain cell out of your head. Pop quiz, who won the Nobel Peace Prize in Physics in 1933? What’s the quadratic formula? Here’s an easy one. How do you say “you are disgusting” in Spanish?”

“Please, Lyds, we both know Physics isn’t my strong point even when I _do_ have higher thought processing ability.”

“Eres asqueroso. Ugh, rip, and I have to throw out my favorite Prada scarf now because everyone knows you can’t dry clean odor out of silk. Impressive hickeys, by the way.”

Stiles crumbles into laughter again, and Lydia has to step into the hallway to get far enough from the smell that she can lower her scarf and use both hands to shoot off a text to Derek.

_In the future, I would appreciate a 24 hour courtesy notice when you plan to turn my study partner’s brain to mush. He is useless to me in his current condition. Our study days are Tuesday and Thursday from 8-11pm, please schedule accordingly, and please refrain from engaging him during exam times._

She waits until the first message says “delivered”, and then sends another, less sassy text, because for some reason - beyond, of course, proving her theory correct - she’s actually happy for them. Maybe if Stiles is getting it on the regular, he can stop daydreaming about it during study sessions, right?

_I’m glad you two idiots finally got your shit together. I’ll graciously save you the “if you hurt him” spiel, because I’m sure you’ll be getting it from John and Scott and probably Melissa soon enough. And I don’t have to remind you of what I’m capable of._

They’ll be good for each other, she admits to herself. They’ve been through similar traumas; maybe they’ll be what the other needs to grow, and maybe they can both start to heal together.

Derek’s reply comes when she’s getting in her car, tossing her scarf in the back seat to get away from the smell of it. She’ll probably have to burn her dress, too, what a shame.

_Anything else, your highness?_

She scoffs, rolls her eyes at the sassiness. The audacity. She wonders why she willingly chooses to associate with these people, but she’s in too deep now.

_Yes, thanks for asking. He’s off limits tomorrow. We’ll be at the library all day to make up for the loss of my valuable time today because you had to ruin him and his room._

Derek doesn’t respond until much, much later, so much later she almost thinks he isn’t even going to text her back. Which would be very on-brand of him to anyone else, but she knows he would never dare to ignore her for fear of meeting her wrath.

_Thank you, by the way. If he hadn’t smelled like you, I probably would never have acted on it._

Oh, that poor emotionally inept child. He probably would’ve been pining in the woods like the mopey, broody werewolf he is, without her. 

Luckily for them all that she’s a fucking genius, then. She sends the next texts to the both of them.

_You both deserve to be happy. Also, I bet on you two happening eventually, so do try your best not to make me look bad._

_And, obviously, I’m claiming my right as the Best Woman/Maid of Honor at the ceremony._

Just another day’s work being the impeccable and flawless Lydia Martin, basically.

God, she really should have charged them for her matchmaking services.

•

(A year later, Lydia opens a box left on her doorstep to find a replica of that silk Prada scarf she’d had to toss. It’s out of season now, obviously, but she keeps it because deep down she’s sentimental and also kinda proud, because Derek and Stiles are DerekAndStiles now, practically inseparable, doting Pack Parents, and she was right, they’re totally perfect for each other, and their gratitude toward her is both endless and much deserved.)


End file.
